


Truth Among Fantasy

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [103]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Codywan Week, Codywan Week 2020, Fluffy, M/M, Minor Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Obi-Wan dispels some of Cody's misconceptions about the Jedi.  One in particular.(CodyWan Week 2020 Day 1: Hurt/Comfort)
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Soft Wars [103]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 27
Kudos: 676
Collections: Codywan Week





	Truth Among Fantasy

“Jedi can fly.”

The General’s laugh is warm honey in bluemilk, sweet and soothing. “Another spacertale, I’m afraid,” he claims. “Though it would certainly make Anakin’s piloting a touch less harrowing if it were true.” They share a smile over the gentle burbling of a chem pack heating a pair of rations.

Rain sleets down gray and miserable outside their shelter but its chill can’t quite invade the bubble they’ve made for themselves. The wind’s finally settled into something not quite calm, but at least less furious. A moan rather than a howl. Perhaps, Cody thinks, this is what people mean by ‘vacation’.

He shifts, just a fraction of an inch to dislodge a pebble that’s wedged its way under his thigh. He breathes slow and careful through the rough, unnatural grate that sends stabs of agony all the way up his leg.

Pain is good, he tells himself. Pain means everything’s still there, still attached still working. Pain is good.

The General’s wide blue eyes fill with misplaced guilt. “Apologies,” he murmurs and his hands flick an aborted motion towards him. Cody would again tell him he wasn’t to blame if he thought it would stick this time. How could he control the placement of Seppie explosives? He’d risked himself to pull Cody from the rubble and hobbled them both over a mountain; surely that’s responsibility enough. But when they were rationing attributes, General Kenobi snuck himself a third helping of Stubborn.

Cody grunts, settles and lets the spasms pass. “Levitation,” he grits, and a long, reluctant second later, General Kenobi accepts the distraction.

“Quite different from flying by definition,” he defends. He prods at the chem packs, though they’re designed to need no intervention while cooking. Steam squeezes out and paints the air with smells far more delicious than the actual meal will be. “Flying implies some sort of self-directed momentum. And the few Jedi who _can_ levitate almost universally need to be very deep in meditation first.”

“‘Almost’?”

General Kenobi grants him a quicksilver smile, small and tight but genuine. “There are always exceptions.”

He snuck himself extra helpings of Clever too, when he went back for the Stubborn. Cody always quietly thrills at the way he weaves and wields his words. He pushes that thought down deep under a contemplation of the upcoming paste. They’d established early in this game that most Jedi can’t read minds, exactly, but Cody isn’t taking chances. His General trusts him, can count on his respect. Cody won’t ruin that with thoughts on the way long, pale fingers curl around delicate around flimsifoil packaging and how arresting they are against dark gray stone.

No.

Cody tears his eyes up and away. He convinces himself that wasn’t a huff of disappointment he’d heard. Just the rain.

Just the rain, drenching the cliff-side. Just the rain and the two of them stuck in it overnight until their pick-up can reach them. Cody decides not to think of that either. Ponds has sent him _far_ too many books that started this way and not a single one has ever ended somewhere suitable for thinking of in the presence of his General.

“Shapeshifting then. Into animals.”

The General huffs, and Cody _can’t_ think of it as petulant. Or cute. “Hawkbats at nightfall, maybe? Transform into Loth-wolves with the phases of the moon? Pulp fiction and bodice rippers,” he grouses and prods pointedly at the cooking bags. “ _What_ kind of sources are you getting these from?”

Sources from Ponds and occasionally Bly, with cover art featuring conventionally attractive humanoids wearing horrifically insufficient armor and sloppily loose tunics. Certainly _nothing_ suited for a _General_.

Cody shifts again and remembers, again, why it isn’t a good idea.

Pain is a good thing, he tells himself. Pain means what’s broken can probably be repaired.

“Shattered,” General Kenobi corrects. Most Jedi can’t read minds, he’d said, just like most can’t levitate. Cody didn’t miss that he didn’t specify which category he falls in. “Here, perhaps this will be a little more comfortable.”

Cody has seen General Kenobi shuck out of his robe dozens of times. In battle, for spars, when it’s just the two of them and their discussions or paperwork have gone on just south of uncomfortably long. It is always the same: an elegant stretch and near sinuous slip of the shoulders, a half step forward and hands thrown back. It’s nearly a sort of dance, some form of musical preamble that leaves Cody spellbound watching for what follows.

“Commander,” his General prompts and his eyes smile to match the near-roguish turn of his mouth. The glow of their emergency lantern flicks halos around the edges of him and lingers in the red highlights of his beard.

If only, Cody’s mind laments before he can drag the thought down, he wasn’t both incredibly attractive and achingly kind. Maybe then Cody could stop reading so much into their friendship.

If only the Jedi wasn’t so wonderfully considerate. Maybe Cody could keep his pining tucked away inside his shell.

“Sir,” he says, he _tries_ and his General kneels at his ankle, cloak folded carefully overarm. “This is-” Undignified? No. Jedi, the General has often argued, have little use for pride. “Unnecessary,” he finishes weakly. Those long fingers, fighter’s hands calloused from the art of the blade, rest feather-light high on his calf.

Below, cracked plastoid clamps down around the unnatural bend of his foot. They can’t risk cutting it off when shards of it have buried themselves deep. Everything is still there, if it’s hurting, he reminds himself. If the nerves still work, most of the rest can probably be fixed. General Kenobi’s hand brushes a searing distraction of heat up to his knee.

“I have little skill in Force Healing,” he apologizes, once again. They’ve treaded this ground often the past day.

“If you did,” Cody says, again, “you would be back on Coruscant, skillfully running the hospital. And I’d still be out here, with some other General who doesn’t have much skill in healing.”

“And of course that just isn’t to be borne.” Cody’s nearly used to the General’s teasing anymore, can still smile back even when his jokes rumble low and smoky and not-distant-enough temptation. Can hold the smile, even when the General’s ticks to something faintly rueful, as it often does. “Commander-” he starts and interrupts himself. Shakes his head slowly. “Never mind. Perhaps this isn’t the time. I suppose I can’t convince you to let me put you-”

“Absolutely not,” Cody confirms, immovable. He cannot convince the General to leave him behind, meet with the rendezvous and send someone back to get him. He will not be convinced to also leave his General to guard him while unconscious. That isn’t what a General should be forced to.

“Then the least I can do is try to make you comfortable.” He twists another sly grin. “Perhaps lay out the bedroll. There’s only one, isn’t there?”

For just a moment, the General sounds like Ponds. ‘And there was _only one bedroll_ ’ Ponds he’s sure has gleefully narrated, probably to a morbidly intrigued Rex as any of the rest of them would have long set at him with pillows or whatever projectiles come to hand. Cody blinks away the memory, blinks again to clear the brightness of his General’s existence down to something manageable.

“I’ll be sure to carry a spare going forward, sir,” he assures.

He’s imagining the moue of disappointment, he lies to himself. Jedi don’t pout, and surely don’t regret. Spacertales.

“Of course you will Commander,” General Kenobi sighs. “Of course. Lean against the wall please.”

Even Cody can't miss the defeat there. The surrender. General Kenobi doesn't move, but still he retreats.

No matter how carefully the General moves, how slowly he raises his ankle, pain is inevitable. The dizziness is new, and unwelcome. Sweat beads at the edges of Cody’s hair line while he breathes in four-counts and tries grimly to keep the cave ceiling in focus. In the night outside something lows, something else chitters in echos soon washed away. A stone shudders from the furthest reaches of the cave where the storm lamp can’t touch and glides to a rest below his ankle. The cloak is rough-spun but soft. Well loved, for all its likely doomed to languish on a field somewhere whenever next the General has to strip out of it in attempts to intimidate Grievous. The piercing pain simmers into a throb. Cody counts his breath, tightens his teeth, loosens his fists.

“Easy, Commander.” The grip on his knee is grounding, something to tie his slippery thoughts to. He feels his pulse all the way up his leg. A sleeve dabs at his forehead, before the sweat can make it’s way to his eyes. "Easy. You'll be alright." He says it like a vow. He dares the universe to try to prove him wrong. He cares too much, for someone like Cody.

_ K'atini _1, he thinks desperately as the General carefully lays his leg. _ Kot _2, he prays, as the General pulls back. The distance across the pool of storm lamp light seems like a gulf that, if he allows the General to cross, he'd never be able to follow. “Levitation,” he barks gracelessly.

The General pauses, nonplussed. “Pardon?”

Cody swallows. In truth, he doesn't quite know what his mouth was doing. His brain, certainly, hasn't been consulted. Whatever it is, it worked: the General waits. Cody gestures at the rock. “You just. Levitated that. Sir.”

General Kenobi stares at him. “Your ability at observation,” he murmurs and nearly sounds wondering. The General laughs, something small and distant. “Yes,” he says and stays where he is. Something deep in Cody's belly unclenches. “Push-pull is a very basic skill, unlike levitating one’s self.” He demonstrates, arm outflung and obediently both rations leap the distance over the blue-white lamp to slap against his palm.

Basic, he says, but Cody is impressed anyway. He says as much, and the smile he nets tries for indulgent but shades too much towards pleased to manage. General Kenobi sinks down beside him, backs against the same wall, and passes him a bag.

GAR undersuits are thermoregulating. Best in the Republic, if the contractor advertising is to be believed. Cody feels the heat all down his right side regardless.

The cook-time indicator on the rations fade to green. The plast multitensil pries up easily from the side and the steam vent slits wide to open. Brown Stew, the flimsifoil packaging brags. It doesn’t bother to say what it was that was Brown Stewed. It’s better if you don’t think about it very hard. It’s better if you don’t think about it at all.

“When we’re on Coruscant next, I should take you somewhere with decent food,” General Kenobi muses out loud. There’s a quality to his tone. Something that, though Cody can’t crane to check, seems to hint a man lining up one last shot, planning to call the mission a wash if this last one doesn't land. Cody stares at the gently steaming brown stewed goop.

He’s close, he thinks, to figuring out how the Stars one handles a Jedi like Kenobi who says things Cody knows he hears but cannot believe could be accurate. He eats a bite of his stew.

A shot taken, the Jedi must think, and a shot missed. Cody doesn't have to have the Force to feel the resignation. Acceptance would follow, he knows, because that's just what General Kenobi is like, isn't it?

Because if Cody turns him down, or even if he misses the implication altogether, General Kenobi will accept that as the Will of the Force or whatever it's called. He won't think that maybe Cody wants to but just can’t… quite reconcile. Cody understands what is being offered; he isn't saying no. But he can’t quite imagine what he could offer in exchange. What of him is there to find valuable?

How can he justify taking, if he hasn’t anything to give in return?

“Oh Cody,” General Kenobi breathes. “You _must_ know that isn’t true.”

Most Jedi, Cody remembers, can’t read minds. 'Use your words', Cody remembers his brothers often complaining. Should it change, when someone may or may not be able to hear your thoughts?

No. It shouldn't. It wouldn't be fair to General Kenobi, and it isn't fair to Cody.

He drops his meal. Turns. Hisses.

The General hisses in empathetic pain. "Please stay still," he protests and the hands that prop Cody back up are so very carefully professional. Cody likes that about as much as he likes the General putting distance between them, thinking it's what Cody wants. "You're hurt-"

"This is important." Cody has to say it. And maybe it's only fair for General Kenobi to hear it.

"It is important that you not aggravate your _severe injury_ -"

"Have dinner with me. Sir." No. And not General either. "Obi-Wan."

General Kenobi exceptionally expressive. That was one of the first things Cody had noticed about him, contrary to the many misconceptions they’d been taught. General Kenobi is expressive: his eyes, his brows, his lips. And more. The tilt of his shoulders, the path of his hands, the set of his stance. He’s genuine in everything he does and makes no bones about showing it.

He reaches often for Cody, and always stops himself before touching. Cody’s never said yes, and he’s content to wait for an answer. A hand reaches out, and for the first time, Cody reaches back. Fingers settle into the crook of his elbow like they belong.

Cody hasn’t asked if Jedi can dull pain. He doesn’t know if it’s the Force, or if it’s that the back and forth over the sensitive nerves in his elbow arrest every minuscule iota of his attention and leave nothing for broken bones to hold.

General Kenobi’s thumb brushes against his bicep. Cody has no thought to spare for anything else.

“When we’re back on on the Negotiator,” Cody starts, because he owns nothing but on the ship under his command he comes tantalizingly close. “I’d like to cook for you.”

He cannot start something on less than equal footing. And maybe General Kenobi doesn’t think Cody needs to prove anything, but maybe it’s something Cody needs to prove to himself.

Cody can’t shift to see, can only see soft drifts of red hair in his periphery, but he feels the smile anyway. “I think I’d like that,” General Kenobi, Obi-Wan says softly, and the touch to Cody’s arm feels so much more than friendly.

Cody thinks he likes it quite a lot.

“After all,” the Obi-Wan continues with a sneak of a smirk. He retreats to his own slop. “Jedi can’t cook.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. It's only pain! Occasionally simplified to 'suck it up!'. Back  
> 2\. Strength. If this is your first time dabbling in this little universe of mine, know that this is an in-joke that started [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407009). Back  
> 


End file.
